A More Decent Society
by allismine
Summary: Silent cries of tortured children echo within his city; he’s the only one who cares to listen. Pre-GN mini-series written as excerpts from Rorschach’s Journal, save for most of chapter six. Rated M for graphic violence. Contains OCs.
1. Day One

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**Disclaimer:** _"Watchmen", and all canon characters and characteristics remain the property and rights of Alan Moore and DC Comics. All I own is the writing itself, and any original features and / or attributes portrayed within said writing, including the original characters._

**A/N:** This is my very first venture into the Watchmen fandom! I've been studying the GN for a while now in an effort to get the hang of the proper characterization; although I would never hope to match up to the genius script of Alan Moore, feel absolutely free to point out any notably glaring discrepancies. Flames, bashes, critique, constructive criticism, and comments of any nature are actively encouraged. Thanks for reading!

"_They were superhuman, untouchable, and so we were freed from the burden of their challenge...their determination, valour, and commitment in the face of overwhelming danger challenge each of us to take up the torch for a more decent society._"  
- Kerry Kennedy

I--I

.┐┌.

Rorschach's Journal – January 2nd, 1985

This city is dying.

Her wavering pulse beats to the rhythm of gunshots, final breaths thick with the vile stench of alcohol and sex, of self-indulgent New Year's celebration. Nothing worth celebrating. Streets have undergone forced metamorphosis, filling dirtiest gutters to richest suites with blood and crime. Dark alleyways have become hostile jungle in which morality is endangered species, with bureaucrats and prostitutes threatening it into extinction with their sin. The end is nigh.

Hid face in apartment this morning, walked downtown. Biting winter air still part of city's hung-over sigh. Cold outside.

Drunken whore stumbles from motel building across street, melts ice on sidewalk with vomit. Shoves cigarette in mouth to manage frustration for ruined shoes. Does not realize she's vomit of her own society. Disgust lingers within vulgar irony. Leaves bad aftertaste.

Newspaper vendor follows predictable repetition. Makes small-talk, questions sign. Asks when nigh will arrive. Reply will arrive once people stop expectation, hence large sign. Cue laugh. Daily routine.

Paper in hand delivers bad news. Murder, torture, death, destruction. Human nature staggers through its own routine in spite of me. Sleepless nights and constant work lead to little improvement. Try to save some and be hated by others. Try to save all and get shot down for trying. Cannot save them all. Cannot reform city with two hands. Can try. Purpose of every night is to try.

Stare at hundred stories regurgitating acts of war violence and corporate greed, only one article in paper stares back. Small corner of advertisement page no one reads. Six-year-old girl kidnapped from house in Queens. Middle-class parents found murdered in residence. Severe mutilation to bodies. Neighbours heard and saw nothing. No suspects. No leads.

Decided to take it. Personal reasons.

Looked up victims from article in phone book, tore off page. Theodore and Maria Johnson. Common surnames. Address search took time. Discovered correct location few hours later. Spotted caution tape crossed over patio.

Retrieved face and left to investigate earlier this evening. Searched house. Scene already swept clean...as expected. Thing about press. Always one day behind.

Entered parents' room. Single mattress appeared as if once immersed in vat of blood. Man and woman weren't murdered. Butchered and left to bleed, like animals. Wondered if girl saw...no, too much risk. Neighbours claim they heard nothing. (Must remember to verify.) No shouting. No gunshots. No screams. Must have been at least two of them...one to commit murder, one to take child and prepare getaway.

Found woman's jewelry box during search. Man's silver-plated watch in top drawer and television in wardrobe cabinet also present. Normal thieves would have pocketed trinkets. Pawned them for drug or whore money. Confirmed suspicion that crime was not typical invasion by ordinary crooks...

Possibly carried out by professional hires? Must investigate further.

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	2. Day Three

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**A/N:** S--sorry I took so long to update; I'm terrible when it comes to these kinds of things. With any luck, I'll get better at it soon! -nervous laughter- As a side-note, the term 'OC' is used very loosely here to describe any non-canon characters named in this fic; they'll _generally_ be playing minor, essential parts to the plot. Hey, just because they're all dead, doesn't make them any less of an original character amirite. ;D

I--I

.┐┌.

Rorschach's Journal – January 4th, 1985

Somebody knows.

Another person killed yesterday evening. Woman this time. Queens apartment.

Consider visiting Dreiberg if things became difficult. Scrap idea. Know what his response would be.

No new evidence found at scene. Things that shouldn't have been there were. Things that should have been, weren't. Valuables. Children. Respectively. Didn't take Harvard degrees to figure out crime was related. Starting to believe murders aren't about victims at all. Personal slaughterhouse. Pornographic exploitation. Child prostitution ring. No reason to risk not assuming worst case scenario. Provides motivation.

Cold feeling grows in pit of stomach. Must be what they call nostalgia.

Visited standard information points past couple evenings. Possible leads have turned up dry. Papers say police having equal luck. Not surprised. Detectives place hope toward implications of telephone records and white powders to reveal stains left by guilty fingertips. Paperwork, technology, waste of time. Remove red tape and find much faster ways of making people talk.

Toxic cloud infects the air of Harry's place with unmistakable scent of contamination, stinging nostrils and making eyes water. Women lay draped over criminals and thugs like whorish strips of cloth, gaping at me soundlessly through visions half-lidded by drug-induced deliriums of happiness.

Bartender turns around to see what silence is about. Sees me and shrivels like a frayed scrap of paper lit on fire.

State intentions loud enough for entire room to overhear. Single out crook who looks most suspicious after announcement. Interrogate until they admit knowledge of answer or spill name and description of someone who does. Repeat as necessary.

Address in Queens slips out between whimpers after third finger splits into two pieces. Looks like somebody knew.

Satisfied with development. Didn't feel like coming back tomorrow.

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End file.
